The Sky Bruises at the Edge
Ben Macnair
It is that time,
when clouds hurry hope,
rain goes dancing,
and the puddles become
a slalom of fun for four year olds.
It is that time when snails meet crushing boot,
droplets ricochet and umbrellas are busy.
Windscreen wipers provide the metronome,
people become darkenend shadows in cagoules,
the Sky bruises at the edge,
and strangers say, well Summer was good,
when it lasted, for a day.
